The Equation
by glambertcello
Summary: Amita seems to be fixated on an equation, and Charlie cannot figure out why it reminds her of him. Charmita. I wish I owned Numb3rs, but sadly, I don't. Happy Valentine's Day! Love you all!


**[A little Valentine's fic for Numb3rs. :) Couldn't help it. Um, so I wish the equation could be on here. But it's an equation I saw online, and was also featured in An Avenger's Gift Exchange. I love it, and I thought it would be perfect and adorable for Charmita. So yeah. :)]**

"What are you doing?"

A startled Amita spun around, the chalk she held falling to the ground and shattering. Acting almost flustered for a moment, she muttered, "Nothing," as she leaned over to gather up the white shards that littered the floor.

Raising an eyebrow, Charlie studied the little equation she had written in the corner of _his_ chalkboard. The both of them had been working on creating an algorithm for an FBI case, so there were plenty of equations scattered across the multiple chalkboards. However, when he had turned back around from five minutes of constant scribbling numbers and symbols, he discovered that she had written an equation that didn't match what they were doing at all.

Stepping away from the board he had been working on, he approached her and the equation, examining it with his critical eyes. Finally, he commented, "You know none of that is written in logical order, right?"

Amita kept staring at her feet, her face becoming increasingly red, but Charlie couldn't figure out why. "Yes," she replied, her voice much too cautious. "I'm aware."

"Then why did you write it like that?" he asked, reaching over to erase it, but she let out a little protesting noise. "What?"

"It's just… it's not the same equation anymore!" she said defensively, moving his hand away. "It's not the same if you change it."

Utterly confused—she could _definitely_ rearrange this equation and it would remain the same; that was a basic rule that was taught in elementary school!—he mumbled, "I don't understand."

Her face turning redder, her eyes finally focusing on his, she blurted, "It just reminds me of you!" And then, she turned around and left.

For a moment, Charlie just stood there, trying to sort through what had happened and make sense of it. But, there was _nothing_ that made sense of the last couple of minutes. Giving up on understanding her reaction, he walked over to his desk, shuffling around until he uncovered a stack of sticky notes from under one of his textbooks. Jotting down the equation so he could interpret it later, when he didn't have so many more important problems rushing through his brain, Charlie approached the board again and erased Amita's unnecessary writing. _I'll contemplate it later,_ he told himself, and returned to his work.

* * *

Charlie wouldn't find himself investigating Amita's equation until a couple of months later, when it surfaced again. This time, it was on a note Amita had written. She'd run out suddenly before he could get back from a lecture and return to his FBI work, but had been gracious enough to leave behind her opinion on a fault in his solution. Underneath her name, she had written the little equation.

Before he realized what he was doing, Charlie had pulled out a scrap of paper from his notebook, and was writing the equation at the top. He could afford to forget about the case for a little bit; he _needed_ to figure out this equation, _needed_ to understand it and why Amita kept writing it.

He began by trying to rearrange it. But, that honestly didn't do anything. About all he could do was factor out part of eighty and simplify the number. That got him nowhere, so he tried expanding it. Still nothing.

Losing himself in his newest problem, he didn't hear Larry enter until his colleague knocked on the doorframe. Jumping, startled, he caused Larry to give him an odd look.

"What's wrong, Charles?" he asked, approaching the mathematician. "Does it have something to do with that murder case Don is investigating?"

Shaking his head, slightly embarrassed that he had gotten caught up in something so _irrelevant_—like Amita had that day on the chalkboard—he confessed, "No, not really. I got sidetracked by this equation Amita keeps writing." He showed Larry the paper, watching as the science professor studied it.

Finally, he looked up, a puzzled expression on his face. "I've never seen anything like this either," he admitted. "It's odd… Why are the letters and numbers not in logical order?"

"I asked her that," Charlie replied, exasperated. "And all she said in reply was, 'It reminds me of you.' Is she trying to say that I make no sense?" He leaned forward and pressed his elbows on his desk, burying his forehead into his hands. "It's frustrating me that I just can't _understand_ it."

Placing a hand on his colleague's shoulder, Larry mused, "Well, Charles, perhaps this is one of those moments when you need to just take a break. While it is in our nature to work until we can't anymore, everyone needs to step away from the problem and look at something else. Who knows; maybe you'll gain some insight. Why don't you go back to working on your solution for the FBI case? Use Amita's note, and then ask her about it later?"

Finally, after trying to come up with any excuse to continue pondering this puzzle, he nods his head. "You're right." Picking up the note and pointedly avoiding looking at the little equation written below her name, he asked, "Larry, do you know much about sword fighting?"

* * *

"Hey, Charlie," Amita said, all smiles as she stepped into the room. There was a little bounce to her step, which Charlie figured he could attribute to her enthusiasm for Valentine's Day. In all of the years they had worked together, she'd been notorious for hand-making Valentine's Day cards and giving them out to the people she worked closely with. It was somewhat childish, but not in the bad way; rather, he and Larry had both decided it was endearing, and were always excited to see what she would write.

Smiling at her—and he usually couldn't _help_ but smile, because her presence always made the room so much lighter—he replied, "Hey, Amita! Having a good Valentine's Day?"

"You bet!" she answered enthusiastically, entering the room and leaning up against one of the tables, where he had a model of a building displayed while he finished helping Don with a case. "I've got your Valentine, if you want it."

Smiling, he said, "Of course I do," and took it from her hand.

Like always, her Valentine's weren't creative in shape. They were always a pink heart, very traditional looking. However, usually she had some sort of clever or personal saying that made it all so much better.

This year, however, she had chosen to write one thing in addition to her name.

After seeing this equation feature itself numerous times, in little notes Amita had written for him and on the chalkboard when he wasn't paying attention, he suddenly couldn't handle any more puzzling over this mystery. "Amita?" he asked.

"What?" she asked, her face transforming into seriousness. "What's wrong?"

"It's just," he said, turning the Valentine so she could see it, "I still don't know what this equation means. You keep writing it, and…" Sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes, he confessed, "And it doesn't make sense to me. I don't understand it."

He expected for her to loosen up, to laugh it off and explain it to him. Instead, her serious demeanor was replaced with nerves. With hesitating hands, she reached down and grabbed a stray piece of paper and a pen. "Well…" she trailed off, as she began writing on it, using her hand as a surface. When she turned her hand to the side, she had written the equation down.

And then, she took the piece of paper. He watched as she folded it directly down the middle, sealing the crease, before turning it around.

Once he realized what it meant, he knew why she cared so much about that equation.

_I love you_.


End file.
